Insommnic
by Alicamel
Summary: Assorted cast members have difficulty sleeping . . . what are they thinking about?


Insomniac, PG  
by Alice R. aka Alicamel  
  
-  
  
There's no escape in sleep.  
  
He knows this, and refuses to kid himself. He knows there's no   
escape in the dark of the night, in laying your head on a pillow and   
letting your aching body drift into rest.  
  
He is restless, like a prowling cat.  
  
He is tired, so tired.  
  
But there's no escape in sleep. He knows this. He's learnt.   
  
And when he tires of staring at into the dark, and has counted so   
many sheep he has a small farm or two, and counted backwards so far   
he's gone through the negative numbers and out the other side, he   
swings his legs out of the bed, and walks over to the kitchenette.   
Warms some milk and curls up on the rocking chair.   
  
And then rocks. He rocks like he was holding his son in arms. He   
murmurs fairy tales in Croatian like his daughter was sitting at his   
feet. And when he goes to bed, he whispers the sweet nothings that   
mean nothing to anyone and everything to everybody, as if she lay   
beside him and would never leave.  
  
--  
  
Sometimes at night, I tell myself that I'm not me.   
  
Because as at night time, you can't see whose face stares back from   
the mirror, and at night time, you can let your mind wonder and at   
night time everything is dreamlike anyway, so it's not like daytime,   
where sentences like my first one get you classed as `odd' or laughed   
at, or committed.  
  
It seems to me, and that doesn't mean it's true, but it seems to me   
that I've spent most of my life in the shadows. Watching everyone   
else play in the sun. Hiding in the shadows, `cause I don't want to   
get burnt. Because the sun does burn, eventually. And at least in   
the shadows I know what to expect. In the dark I know where I am.   
And at night, I can be whoever I want to be.   
  
Or whatever.   
  
Even if it has all gone by the sunrise.  
  
I can be President if I want. With my fancy chair, and millions of   
staff. Looking at maps and figure. Making important decisions.   
Listening to people and being listened too.  
  
Until, by sunrise, all that is gone.  
  
Or I can be a teacher, English maybe, Biology. With a desk and a   
mark book and a red pen. Looked up too because, I'm older, because   
I'm in charge, because I know things that they don't.  
  
  
Yet, by sunrise, all that is gone.  
I can be married, a husband to some beautiful wife. Someone who   
looks at me with those eyes and kisses me with that tenderness and   
holds me like no one ever did before.  
  
Still, by sunrise, all that is gone.  
  
I can be respected and I can be wanted and I can be loved. I can be   
loved.  
  
But by sunrise, all that is gone.  
  
--  
  
She sleeps. So open, so honest. She always is. But the person   
watching her? She has secrets. She keeps them, close to her chest   
like precious diamonds, like a child's teddy bear, like a dream, a   
hope, a wish that won't come true if you tell someone else.  
  
Secrets.  
  
She's good at those.  
  
`I'm sorry sir, but you need to speak with the consultant.'  
  
`We need to do more tests.'  
  
`There was nothing you could have done different.'  
  
It's cold in the room and uncomfortable goose bumps rise over her   
skin.   
  
She doesn't sleep well in strange bedrooms. And though this one's   
familiar, it's no different. She can't sleep here. She never   
could. She just can't bear to tell her. So she doesn't. She sits,   
on a chair, in the cold night. Watching. Waiting for morning.  
  
And keeping secrets.  
  
--  
  
It's a quiet night, like last night. Not like the night before where   
there was screaming and yelling, or the night before that, when there   
was hysterical crying.   
  
No it's a quiet night, and I'm not sure if that's good or not. It   
means I can finally get some sleep, but ironically, now I can…. It   
avoids me. Life's kinda like that, huh? One long, ironic, kick you   
when you're down, trip you when you're up, roll on the floor in   
hysterical laughter or tears, not sure which, big, humungous joke.  
  
Though it could just be mine. Yeah, that's probably it.  
  
So. Quiet night.  
  
As a kid I longed for these. One night's sleep, one night of not   
worrying, because silence meant she taken her medicine, either enough   
or too much and by then I was old enough to not care, and young   
enough to not care.   
  
Usually it meant none of those things.  
  
Right now it means depression, quiet sniffling. Which is fine with   
me because the walls aren't too thin and my hearts not too weak.   
  
I won't go through. I won't comfort her. I won't make warm milk or   
hot chocolate and take it through, hoping to lull her to sleep. I   
won't tell her stories, or listen to her ramble and sob and stumble.   
I promise myself I won't.  
  
I never could keep my promises to myself.  
  
--  
  
He wakes the next morning and for an instant she is there among the   
tangled sheets, a presence he can't see or feel, but there, because a   
couple in love can sense these things, without a word being spoken.   
He can tell she's smiling.  
  
But then he's really awake and he realises and he's back to reality.   
Back to the classic stranger in the classic strange land, back to   
pretending he's as happy and back to pretending he can sleep as easy   
as everyone else and back to the promises that he `knows it's time to   
move on.'   
  
Back to lying to himself, as he imagines he always will.  
  
---  
  
Please let me know what you think. And if you ask real nice I'll tell you whose who. :)  
  
Alice.  
`So make the best of this test and don't ask why  
It's not a question but a lesson learned in time.'  
Greenday, `Time of Your Life.' My new song of the moment.  



End file.
